Parallax
by Kate Christie
Summary: Par-al-lax: (noun) The apparent displacement of an observed object due to a change in the position of the observer. Post-ep one-shot for Target/Hunt. Castle/Beckett. Co-written by Kate Christie and Caffinate me.


**Parallax **

**Par-al-lax: (noun) ****The****apparent**** displacement of an observed**** object**** due to a change in the position of ****the****observer.**

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**Author's note: This is sort of a modern art fanfic experiment. Kate Christie wrote the dialogue for a "Target/Hunt" post-ep while her plane was landing. Of course, she sent it to her sometimes-beta and co-conspirator, the lovely, Caffinate-Me (Alex), who immediately had "ideas." Rather than share their own respective plans, they conspired to create parallel stories. The only rule was to keep the dialogue exactly the same, and to maintain the perspective of their chosen character. Anything else-setting, tone, timing etc.-was at the writer's discretion. What resulted is published below: two entirely different snippets that "almost couldn't be more different." Kate and Alex certainly had fun with it. Now we want to know what you think. Tell us which is which in your review. Virtual Caskett kisses to all who guess correctly!**

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**Beckett:**

Kate bowed her head, arms braced against the bathroom counter, the tap running in front of her even though she had yet to touch the water. She locked her elbows, an attempt to get them and the rest of her body to stop shaking— a result of the adrenaline, worry, caffeine, lack of sleep. None of the above, all of the above.

She pressed her eyes closed. Did it really even matter anymore?

She had had to excuse herself from the table, the scraps of breakfast still in front of them. Well in front of Castle and Alexis anyway. Her plate had barely been touched; Martha's was still half full. But the other two were joking like nothing had happened, like they hadn't just come from halfway across the world. Like they both hadn't almost died.

She drew in a deep breath, holding it in her lungs for a long moment before pushing it back out. She felt like it should have a color, that air she had just expelled. Black, grey, green maybe.

Green.

She was envious in a way, of how they were able to brush this off like nothing had happened or at least act like it was nothing. But she saw it in his eyes when Alexis had gone upstairs to change out of her "stale" airplane clothes: the worry. Scared she wouldn't come back down stairs again, like she would vanish into thin air.

She drew in another breath, holding this one longer— until her lungs began to burn, sparks turning to flames against her sides. Her thoughts began to tilt, to whirl.

Stupid. He was so stupid— running off half-cocked half way across the world. But he wasn't stupid, was he?

Releasing the seal of her lips, she gasped in a new breath. Cleansing.

If it had been him, if it had been her father who had been taken, she would have done the same thing. Anything to save the ones you...

Her eyes fluttered open and locked with his. He was behind her, watching her through the mirror. How long, she didn't know. But she could see it all reflected back at her: wonder, worry, shame, relief, exhaustion, terror, excitement, secrets.

Haunted. Relieved. Wounded. Saved.

So much to say, but there were not enough words. Not the right ones.  
Her eyes traveled down, assessing him through the mirror, how he leaned against the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his chest. Messy hair, rumpled shirt.

He needed to shower, to sleep. He needed to spend time with his daughter. But instead of walking toward the shower or curling up on the sofa with a big bowl of popcorn, an arm securely wrapped around Alexis, he was there, staring at her.

Waiting.

Waiting for what?

For her to speak? For the right words?

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the cool marble but she didn't move, she couldn't. The water was still running out of the tap, fluid, useless, forgotten. Her bare toes scrunched against the tile floor. Her shirt untucked, her blazer forgotten somewhere in the living room.

Slowly he pushed off the wall, arms unfolding as he took a hesitant step into the space. She drew her bottom lip between her teeth. He was holding the book, the one that had come in a package. No note.

_Casino Royale_

"Kate, I have a dad."

Her eyes fluttered shut again, a wave of relief washing over her. She knew; she had overheard him telling his mother earlier. Alexis had filled in the gaps, her voice low because no one was supposed to know. Only them... only family.

Her eyes opened, finding his once again in the mirror, fingers loosening, color flooding back to her knuckles, but she still couldn't bring herself to turn around, to face him head on. Not yet. Her voice still cracked as she spoke.

"I know. I'm so glad he found you."

And the small smile that graced her lips wasn't forced or faked. She truly was happy for him, for the little boy she could see reflected back in his eyes. And, God help her, she was happy he was telling her, because as much as she had tried to forget Meredith's words, to force them from her mind, to tell herself that it wasn't the same between them, there had always been that doubt... that he would shut her out too...

"He told me... He told me he'd always been proud of me."

His voice soft, head ducking with the words, eyes glued to the book where his fingers were playing with the pages, flipping through them, rubbing down the line of the smooth edge of the spine.

She turned around, her eyes only losing contact with his for a second, and even that was a second too long, because she couldn't not look at him anymore, she couldn't not wrap her arms around him and hold him. Because as mad as she was that he had gone running across the globe without her, as worried sick as she had been when she had heard that gunshot and his phone went dead, he was here, alive, well, mostly whole, and he was that little boy again, the one excited and proud because he had a father, _a dad_, one that loved him and was proud. It hadn't occurred to her before, with his layer of bravado and flippancy, how much he had needed to hear those words, to have that reassurance.

Had she ever told him that she was proud of him? Because she was. How could anyone not be proud of this extraordinary man standing in front of her, the one who had forced his way into her heart even though she had fought him tooth and nail? This man who had raised a beautiful, exceptional daughter on his own, who had built himself a life most could only dream of.

"Of course he's proud of you. I'm proud of you. You're a good man, and a good father." Sincerity poured out with every word. She took a step toward him, a hand reaching up to cup his jaw thumb gently caressing his cheek. "But if you ever pull something like this again without me, I will hurt you."

He huffed out a laugh, the book still clutched between them, sandwiched between their chests. There was a story there, one that she would hear later, after everything had settled down. After they had talked... and not talked.

His free arm wrapped around the small of her back, palm warm through the cotton barrier of her shirt, fingers splayed across her spine forcing her feet to shuffle forward, pulling her into him.

"Special kind of hell?"

Her eyes narrowed as she looked up at him. The expression staring back at her was one of childlike impishness swirled with age and experience, a look that was purely Castle. Oh, so he wanted to play now? Fine. She could balance the humor with the serious. That was their forte after all, wasn't it? Talk about things without ever actually talking about them.

"Very special."

"Goes both ways, you know."

Okay, this had taken a strange turn. She let out an eye roll, an attempt to play along with wherever this was going.

"What? My special hell?"

"No. Going solo."

Her breath caught in her throat.

Oh. So they were actually talking now.

She had... And this was how he had felt when...

_If they want a war, I'll bring them a war, straight to their doorsteps..._

She dropped her head, resting it momentarily against his chest as she let out a shaky breath. She prided herself on being a smart person, but even she could admit she was an idiot sometimes.

"I... Know." Her voice was low, barely a whisper, full of regret, repentance. "And I see now; I see what it does to someone who... loves you, going off half cocked, running headlong into danger."

She paused, lifting her head to look him in the eye because this was important. He needed to know she meant it.

"I won't do that to you again. I promise."

She watched, eyes searching his face as his drifted shut, his whole body deflating slightly. Slowly he reached out to put the book on the counter behind her, now free to wrap both his arms around her, drawing her fully against him, a hand coming up to cup the back of her head. Fingers threaded through her hair as her arms snaked around his back, hanging on for dear life. He was here, alive, with her, and his daughter was in the other room. They were together and whole. Again.

"Being proud goes both ways, too. I'm proud of you every day. I was before I had any right to be." He murmured the words into her hair; nose nestled right above her ear. He spoke them into her as if he were trying to brand them onto her soul.  
And it did feel good to hear those words. Her eyes fluttered closed as a tear leaked out. He was proud of her, as screwed-up as she was, as much of a mess as she had been before, when she had done everything she could to keep him out of her life and then toyed with him, allowed him in an inch just to shut him out again.

He was _proud_. Of her.

She sniffled into his shoulder. Damn it. She had promised herself that she wouldn't do this now. "We're a regular fan club, huh?"

His chest shook slightly with unexpected laughter. But humor was good. They did light well.

"International rescue missions make me sappy."

"Sappier."

She pulled back, a sly grin playing on her face and it was his turn to roll his eyes.  
"Fine, sappier."

"Sappy is okay sometimes," she placated. Her hand came up to play with the top button of his shirt, popping it open before slowly trailing her fingers down to the next button, popping it open as well, her eyes trained on her task.

"Can I get that in writing?"

She moved on to the third button, and she could hear the smile in his voice, because this is what they did. This was how they survived the serious- with levity, sass and sex. And they were in the bathroom after all, and he was in need of a shower...

She shook her head, eyes still focused on the growing expanse of exposed skin.

"Absolutely not."

She flipped open the last button and reached down to untuck his shirttails, taking the time to reach in and run her hands over him, relishing the feel of him under her fingertips but his hands came up and stilled them.

"Better take advantage of my opportunity, then. Even though I left you behind and waited too long to call you and did stupid, stupid things, trying to get Alexis back, I need for you to know that I didn't mean to hurt you. Kate, I love you. More and more every single day."

His hands let go of hers, reaching to draw up her sides instead, taking her turtleneck with them, and once the layer of cotton was gone, their eyes met again, only sincerity and pure, unbridled love shining back at her.

Never again.

They were in this together. Partners. Always. Even if she couldn't bring herself to say those three words yet, she could tell him in every other way possible. She could support him with her strength. She could stand naked in front of him, baring her weaknesses. She could prove it in action. And one day soon she would be able to secure it with words.

But until then...

She hooked a hand behind his head and let him see it in her eyes. She never meant to hurt him. She was proud of him. She would do anything for him. And it scared her...

"It goes both ways, Castle. It goes both ways."

… How much she loved him.

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**Castle:**

"Kate, I have a dad."

The words just come out, a direct line from thought to vocalization. Even the low timbre of his voice seems stark as it interrupts the gentle quiet of the room.

His mind won't rest. His body is exhausted from days of debilitating fear, little sleep, no food, muscles shaky with fatigue, adrenaline-laced. And now, a far better exhaustion, joints loose, limbs heavy, sated from the past hour filled with pinning her, slick and needy and demanding, to his shower wall, being flattened to his own mattress, his entire world narrowing to the heat of her mouth, the shift of her curves over him, under him, around him as he filled her. Finding ways to make each other scream that had nothing to do with pain or anger and everything to do with life and how much being in this together means. But now his brain is buzzing, working, trying to fix everything that he knows is still wrong.

He thinks she's fallen asleep, her body a lithe, limber puddle on his chest, snuggled against his skin. Racing hearts, ragged breaths have finally evened out, given way to calm, silent stillness in the near dark.

But then she lifts her head, and the moonlight catches a flash of green as the point of her chin presses into his sternum: punctuation.

"I know." The words vibrate through her ribcage and into his, a mechanical transmission of sound, deeper, baser than the melody of her voice. "I'm so glad he found you."

Maybe she's been thinking too.

And that look? It's equal parts genuine happiness and wary relief. It couldn't have been easy for her to think he was out there all alone. Now at least she knows he had an advocate, someone to protect him when she could not, when he wouldn't allow her.

More than an advocate, for just a few hours, he'd had a _father_. Not that he needs baseball lessons or financial advice or whatever else dads are supposed to teach their sons. But now that Alexis is safe in her bed, it hits him that his father actually taught him things, things that helped him save his daughter. And the man had fought for him, fought for Alexis, which is the strongest parental instinct of all. So maybe, in all the ways his mother says she loved enough for a lifetime in that one night, he's had a dad for one day, and that could be enough for him.

"He told me... He told me he'd always been proud of me."

And because of his extensive practice reading subtext thanks to the woman currently draped over him in bed, he knows what his dad didn't say but meant just as deeply.

His extremely sexy blanket rearranges a bit, sort of slithers up beside him, drags the sheet and comforter behind her like a cape, wraps them both up together, skin to skin. The way she crinkles her forehead, that soft little smile, the flat of her palm pressing just over his heart, it's not hard to hear those same three words, even if she hasn't said them.

"Of course he's proud of you. I'm proud of you. You're a good man, and a good father."

His heart kicks against her hand, because as much as he _wants_ those others, these words might mean even more. Finding her under the covers, he gets his arms around her, hopes their strength transmits the force of his love for her.

He doesn't deserve her pride. Disappearing, leaving her behind, not letting her know he was still alive-none of that is worthy. As he's spiraling down into remorse, her eyes snap back at him, mostly a tease, but with a seed of anger behind it, a front for what he knows are hurt feelings.

"But if you ever pull something like this again without me, I will hurt you."

One finger pokes between his ribs with just a little more force than absolutely necessary, and she can't hold onto the stern look-that little curve of her lips gives her away. She's already mostly forgiven him. They will deal with that hurt; he _will_ find a way to make it up to her, to make her believe. For now, he will follow her lead, back to banter, back to the familiar give and take.

"Special kind of hell?"

It's their code name for certain kinds of retribution-usually mutually enjoyable kinds. Her menacing finger turns sultry on his skin, trailing down until her nail circles his nipple, making all sorts of things _stir_ again.

"Very special."

But he needs to stay focused, keep her talking just a little longer, because now that they've started, he wants to make sure she understands. Pushing off the mattress, he rolls them so they lie facing each other, still entwined, still close enough that she can't look away.

"Goes both ways, you know."

The quirky smile tells him she's already imagining all sorts of ways he can make it up to her.

"What? My special hell?"

Oh yes, _that_ definitely goes both ways, it goes _all_ the ways, but it's not what he means.

"No. Going solo."

Her expression sobers, and he loses their connection beneath the dark sweep of her lashes for just a moment. When she makes it again, she's come back from a memory-the old edge of obsession, single-minded and cold, echoes.

"I... Know. And I see now; I see what it does to someone who loves you-"

His heart almost stops at how close she's come, but he wants to pay attention to what comes next, so he wills the muscle to start beating again.

"— going off half cocked, running headlong into danger. I won't do that to you again. I promise."

In this moment, from the deepest depths of his soul, he believes her.

Despite nine months of proving herself to him since they dove into this together, half-drowned under the weight of their own secrets and lies, he has never believed her so fully, so completely, as he does now, watching the tremble of her lip, hearing the rasp of fierceness in her voice.

It shakes his composure to see it play out over her face, the fear and the desperation she must have felt, not knowing whether that shot that ended their brief conversation had also ended him.

He almost can't fathom how far she's come, that she's been able to let go of so much, to knock down so many thick, sturdy walls to be as she is with him, lying here, open, wholly exposed, body and heart and soul. It's too much to keep in, to silence in his heart. Brushing a long, messy curl behind her ear, over her shoulder, he watches as goosebumps rise along the line of her neck, and he tells her.

"Being proud goes both ways, too. I'm proud of you every day. I was before I had any right to be."

Catching his hand in hers, she laces their fingers together, brings them to her lips. The contact is more of a caress than a kiss— a wash of breath across his knuckles, the subtle scrape of her abused lower lip along the articulation of his thumb, his wrist.

"We're a regular fan club, huh?"

Oh, he's been president of her fan club for five years. Wonder if she was ever in his? He'll have to get his people to comb through the old records sometime...

"International rescue missions make me sappy."

Flexing his fingers, drawing hers in between, he traces the curve and hollow of her cheek with the back of his hand, feels her list into the touch, her smile nudging into his skin.

"Sappi_er_."

Somehow his fingertip ends up between her teeth, nibbled, worried and thoroughly entranced. There is nothing he can deny her when she starts in with the rough slide and swirl of her hot little tongue, exploring every whorl, then letting go with a soft "pop."

"Fine, sappi_er_."

His voice is a little breathier than he would like, but hell, with the week he's had, the tears he's shed before her, the grief, cold and inconsolable, he's worn on his sleeve, he's got no dignity left to make him self-conscious. Through those hours, those days, when his world was the blackest, bleakest, emptiest of wastelands, she saw it all, unguarded, and she accepted it, didn't fault him for it, but didn't baby him, either. Kate had just been there, perfect and quiet and strong.

"Sappy is okay sometimes."

Why does he write _fiction_? He ought to be able to write her poetry. Sonnets. Haiku. But her leg deftly insinuating itself between his, coaxing him into delicious contact, is provoking quite a _non-verbal_ reaction. She's hell-bent on beguilement, but he surprises himself with his own coherence and manages to string together a somewhat witty verbal response.

"Can I get that in writing?"

And then she does that thing where he ends up underneath her with no idea how she's accomplished it, hair mussed and flaring and haloed around her head in the moonlight as she settles over him, smug, wanting, wicked, bewitching.

"Absolutely not."

Everything crashes into his heart— he has his _daughter_ back, he met his _father_, and even though he was a horrible partner to her through all of it, the love of his life is curling herself around him, would have to crawl inside his skin to get any closer, and that's exactly where he wants her. God, he is the luckiest man in the world. And he needs to tell her.

"Better take advantage of my opportunity, then."

This is going to take concentration, and the sight and the sound and the smell and the feel of her is so... distracting. But no, he can do this; this is important, he can focus.

"Even though I left you behind—" she blinks long and slow, presses her lips to his jaw, "— and waited too long to call you," traces a soft, gentle line up to his ear, "—and did stupid, stupid things trying to get Alexis back," nibbles at the shell, pulls the sensitive flesh into her mouth, overwhelms him with heat, "I need for you to know that I didn't mean to hurt you."

His earlobe meets cool air again, and he feels her breath paint a sigh against his cheek, meets her hesitant look. Obviously she isn't expecting his candidness, his solemnity, but at least he has her full attention. His fingertips thread into the honeyed silk of her hair, palms cradling the angles of her cheeks, all of her beauty in dark relief in the low light of his bedroom. When the stars find the emerald of her eyes, and they find him in return, he lays himself bare.

"Kate, I love you. More and more every single day."

The sudden pools of moisture in her eyes can't be his imagination-they overflow, spilling, baptizing his skin in salty trails, undeniable, absolute, tangible and true. And she doesn't try to hide them, doesn't blink them back, wipe them away, just lets them fall, unashamed and unafraid, just as she has become. He is unworthy, undeserving of all she now offers, but loving her for so long makes him brave, and needy, and unrepentant. Then she smiles, and he nearly drowns in the joy, the solace those lips offer.

"It goes both ways, Castle. It goes both ways."

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**A/N (Kate): For Joy, who we think will appreciate the weird premise of this writing project. Next time, we're going to bug you for a third version. Alex, this was so much more fun than just writing it on my own. I'm amazed at the way you could take set dialogue and be so creative with it, treat it so differently, and yet so much the same. Thanks for being an awesome mirror image. And Angie (dtrekker), thank you for MAKING US AN AWESOME MIRROR IMAGE.**

**Twitter: Kate_Christie_**

**Tumblr: KathrynChristie dot tumblr dot com**

**A/N (Alex): So, first off, I am amazed at how these turned out. Know that neither of us read the other's until it was time to edit. We were both struck by how similar they were, how one inadvertently lead into the other, and how the dialogue dictated the direction of the scene. Joy, what Kate said. ;) Kate, this was too much fun, our little post-modern fanfic experiment. It's going to be fun to see what we can come up with next. Angie, You rock. **

**Twitter: aspen_musing**


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